Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [177]
Alongside the offspring of incest, the nuns found a sack full of money. This (pagan cannibals who must be evangelized, clothed, and fed) was what finally made them decide to take the child in: she would be raised as their servant, and later, if she proved to have a vocation, they would make of her another slave of Our Lord in a white habit. They would christen her Fátima, since she had been found in the turn-box on the anniversary of the day that the Virgin had appeared to the little shepherd children of Portugal. And so the little girl grew up, withdrawn from the world, amid the virginal walls of the Carmelite convent, in an unpolluted environment, without seeing a single man (before Crisanto) save for the old gout-ridden Don Sebastián (Bergua?), the chaplain who came once a week to absolve the good sisters of their (always merely venial) sins. She was sweet-natured, gentle, docile, and the most discerning nuns said that (purity of the soul that sharpens the vision and beatifies the breath) they noted in her behavior unmistakable signs of sanctity.
In a superhuman effort to overcome the timidity that made him tongue-tied, Cristano Maravillas approached the girl and asked if he could help her water the flower garden. She consented, and from that day forward, each time that María Portal went to the convent, while she was in the kitchen cooking with the nuns, Fátima and Crisanto swept the cells together or scrubbed the patios together or changed the flowers on the altar together or washed the windows together or waxed the floors together or dusted the missals together. Between the ugly young boy and the pretty young girl there arose (first love that is always remembered as the best) a bond that—only death would break?
It was when the young half-cripple was nearing the age of twelve that Valentín Maravillas and María Portal noticed the first signs of that inclination which in a short time was to make of Crisanto a miraculously inspired poet and a famous composer.
It all happened during the celebrations that, at least once a week, brought the people who lived round about the Plaza de Santa Ana together. When a baby was born or there was a wake (celebrating a happy event or healing a wound?)—pretexts were never lacking—revels were organized, in the garage of Chumpitaz the tailor, in the little back courtyard of the Lamas’ hardware store, in the alleyway where the Valentíns lived, that went on till dawn, accompanied by the strumming of guitars, the booming of cajones, the rhythmic clapping of hands, the voices of the tenors. As the couples, in fine fettle (fiery brandy and the aromatic viands of María Portal!), struck sparks on the tiles as they danced, Crisanto Maravillas watched the guitarists, the singers, the drummers, as if their words and sounds were something supernatural. And when the musicians took a break to have a smoke or a drink, the youngster reverently approached the guitars, stroked them very gently so as not to frighten them, strummed the six strings, and arpeggios were heard…
It was soon evident that the cripple had an aptitude, a remarkable gift. Possessed of an unusually good ear, he could listen to any rhythm and repeat it immediately, and although his tiny hands were weak he could expertly accompany any sort of Peruvian music on the cajón. Whenever the musicians took time out to eat or drink, he learned the secrets of their guitars by himself and became their intimate friend. People in the neighborhood soon grew accustomed to seeing him play along with the other musicians at fiestas.
His legs had grown no longer, and though he was now fourteen, he looked like an eight-year-old. He was very thin, for (a convincing sign of an artistic nature, a slenderness characteristic of those who are inspired)